


so, if you're lonely (i’m just a shot away from you)

by Talls



Series: aftg au oneshots [5]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Andrew always gets his man, Bounty Hunter Andrew Minyard, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sympathetic Outlaw Neil Josten, maybe a lil plot but just a bit, self-indulgent cowboy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talls/pseuds/Talls
Summary: Neil’s been living on his own for a year or so now.  He doesn’t remember the last time he slowed down, the last time he breathed evenly, the last time his heart beat steadily. His mother taught him how to skip town well enough that he’d be unbothered if it wasn't for a particularly tenacious bounty hunter: Andrew Minyard.He’s starting to wonder how bad it would really be if Andrew caught him.--In which Andrew catches him.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Series: aftg au oneshots [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017799
Comments: 44
Kudos: 495





	so, if you're lonely (i’m just a shot away from you)

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! I felt like the last time I tried to write a PWP I accidentally wrote a greek tragedy, so I'm attempting the exercise again, but this time where they just have sex instead of having sex and also a terrible time! 
> 
> It's super self-indulgent, and hopefully worthwhile as a read even if ur not interested in the porn as much! 
> 
> thanks as always to Lexie for proofreading this in front of her boyfriend without any shame and letting me know what to edit in the most oblique but communicative terms possible. what a legend and fiend. she also wrote part of the summary (hint: it's the good part)

The stars look far away tonight, Neil thinks quasi-deliriously as he looks up into the night sky. The fire crackles to his side, banked but alive. It’ll keep ‘till morning, Neil knows. He’ll probably stay awake the whole night with it, restless and exhausted. Foxfire snuffles in her sleep a few paces away, still laden with most of Neil’s supplies. He’s too paranoid to completely unload her at night, but she’s a magnificently sturdy horse, and she’s never given him any trouble. His bedroll is wearing thin, and he can feel the rocks underneath him pressing into his back as he shifts to get comfortable. 

Neil’s been living on his own for a year or so now, sweated and struggled through summer, stole and lied through winter. He’s almost at the end of his rope, strung out on paranoia and a loneliness so profound that he can’t sleep, too busy staring up at the stars from his bedroll and wondering who would care if he froze to death overnight. 

His mother is the one who brought them to the frontier in the first place, far enough west that his father’s criminal empire couldn’t influence local government. Nathan sent assassins after them, but Mary killed most of them early on in their flight, garnering Mary a generous bounty and Neil a tremulous safety in the West. They were at the mercy of outlaws and bandits, corrupt sheriffs and handbills that accrued more and more of Mary’s false identities, but at least they were free. 

They survived for eight years out there, long enough for Neil to reach adulthood and complacency. Neil had known his father was evil, was murderous and vile and money-grubbing, but he hadn’t known he was uncommonly patient until the day he turned nineteen and the handbill for his bounty was released and distributed:

_Nathaniel Wesninski. Nineteen Years Old. Wanted Alive for $5000. Multiple counts of murder and armed robbery._

His mother was killed defending him when he was recognized for the first time, back before he knew about the new bounty. She taught him how to disguise himself and how to skip town well enough before she died that he’s been mostly unbothered by local deputies on the run. The only person in the world who’s routinely been on Neil’s trail is a particularly tenacious bounty hunter, one Andrew Minyard. 

Neil flips onto his stomach, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground. He thinks about Andrew a lot. There’s not much else in Neil’s life to think about, other than the next job, the next scam, or the next flight in the dead of night. Andrew is just about the only thing that ever happens to Neil that Neil can’t predict. It’s intoxicating, and a real pain in the ass. 

They have a slightly more personal relationship than Neil was ever expecting to have with someone aiming to capture him. Since Andrew caught Neil’s trail, he’s only ever been two steps behind him at most. Something about him sees right through Neil’s defenses. Unlike the rest of the West, Andrew can recognize Neil in any disguise, a fact that almost got Neil shot early on. He also has a weird knack for getting in Neil’s head, predicting where he’ll end up before even Neil knows and meeting him there, sabotaging his jobs and telling bartenders that his word and money ain’t worth anything. If Neil’s bounty didn’t specify he was to be brought in alive, Neil reckons he’d have been dead for months now. Andrew’s the only person who’s ever been able to play at Neil’s level. It’s thrilling.

Neil knows that he could probably work harder to keep Andrew out of his head, but he can’t help but bait him, leaving him notes in places only Andrew would think to look, asking strangers to deliver obscure messages to him hours after Neil skips town. He’s even bribed bartenders to tell him personal information Andrew spills when he gets really drunk, just to know him better, crack open that golden skull and see the person behind the pursuit. 

They spoke once, Neil remembers, recalling the careworn memory of that fateful evening at the saloon. Neil hadn’t known Andrew yet, hadn’t realized how direct a threat he was, but even at first sight, he had felt the danger radiating off his cool and controlled stance, the way everyone at the bar gave him a wide berth, the way he sat in the seat with the best view of both exits. Neil was drawn to him the way he’s drawn to all his bad ideas, inexorably and with no real plan. 

“Fancy a game of cards?” Neil had asked. Neil remembers seeing Andrew’s warm whiskey eyes for the first time, feeling struck by how rare they seemed. 

“Bad idea,” Andrew said, toying idly with his glass. 

“Me or the game?” Neil asked, sliding into the seat next to him without asking permission. Andrew raised his eyebrow, and then, faster than Neil could react, grabbed Neil’s wrist and pinned it to the table. Neil tried to pull away, but Andrew’s grip was unshakeable. 

“Both,” Andrew says, tucking two fingers up Neil’s sleeve and pulling out the pair of aces hidden there, dropping them on the table. Neil tensed in anticipation of violence, but there was only a mild amusement on Andrew’s strong features. Neil remembers shivering and then feeling incredibly warm in close succession.

“Was that a deal-breaker?” Neil asked, unable to hold his tongue, and Andrew had smirked, a slight quirk of his lips that only sharpened his features. It was only then that Neil noticed the handbill tucked in Andrew’s front pocket, depicting an outlaw Neil was vaguely familiar with. A bounty hunter. 

“Only if you’re unlucky. What’s your name?” Andrew asked. 

“What’s yours?” Neil asked back. Andrew just raised an eyebrow again. “Neil,” he relented. He could have offered a made up name, but he chose to offer the alias he was using at the time. He knew better, but something about Andrew made Neil want to offer something real, or as close to real as Neil could get. 

“Well, Neil, why don’t you deal us a hand, and we’ll see how lucky you are?” Andrew offered.

“Tell me your name and I’ll do just that,” Neil said. Andrew had smiled then, this time like a blade, and Neil’s breath had caught in his throat. 

“Andrew,” he said, and Neil’s life changed irrevocably. “Andrew Minyard.” 

The conversation flowed with the whiskey and the game from that point, spawning an odd tension between them that only grew the longer the hours drew. Neil found himself leaning in so close to speak that he could feel Andrew whisper in his ear more than he heard him. The slow burn of alcohol in his veins made him feel warm, and Andrew’s menacing energy kept the other barflies at bay enough that Neil felt in a world of his own, slowly sinking under the waves of Andrew’s whiskey-gold eyes. 

Late that night, Andrew threw bills on the table and stood up, and Neil had followed like a horse on a lead, unwilling to let their conversation end there. They made it to their horses and Andrew had paused, staring at Neil under the flickering lantern light of the saloon entrance. Neil had been so caught in his gaze that when Andrew stepped into his space, he stepped forward as well, so they were barely a breath from each other. 

Neil has revisited the moment they shared there maybe a billion times, the tension between them almost stifling. Neil didn’t know what he wanted at the time, but there was something foreign and desperate in his chest that had screamed to be acknowledged, an urge he didn’t recognize flooding his body, making his fingertips itch. 

Suddenly, there was a crash from inside the saloon, and a man was thrown unceremoniously out, shattering the moment. Andrew had pulled away from Neil and grabbed his gun, moving towards the scuffle. 

“Josten,” the man had growled, Neil’s alias at the time, recognizing Neil from a heist a month back, one where Neil had taken off with slightly more than his cut. Andrew had stiffened, turned to Neil with a suddenly very knowing eye. “You double-crossing son of a bitch.” 

“Listen, Maguire,” Neil started, putting a conciliatory hand up. Andrew had lifted his gun at that point, aiming it at Maguire’s head. 

“When he says Maguire, he wouldn’t happen to mean Patty Maguire, wanted in two states for upwards of ten counts of armed robbery?” Andrew asked, with a sort of resignation in his stoic tone. 

“No,” Patty lied, and Andrew sighed for a long moment. 

“I start chasing the Wesninski bounty tomorrow,” he had said, inclining his head at Neil slightly. “You get a head start tonight. Call it a professional courtesy.” 

“Wesninski? Never heard the name,” Neil said facetiously, and Andrew had rolled his eyes before refocusing on Maguire. Neil leaped onto the back of Foxfire, and, looking back one last time at the bounty hunter sent to capture him, regretted that they’d only have the one encounter. After all, Neil had thought at the time, with his mother’s tricks, nobody would ever be able to catch him. 

The next time Neil saw Andrew, he was pinning a poster with Neil’s face and a far more comprehensive list of his aliases than Neil expected on the Sheriff’s station, and Neil had to quit town, ditching an incredibly lucrative job in the process. 

And so their game began. The tension they felt in that first meeting never abated over the months of pursuit, and Neil had spent many hours on horseback imagining what he would say if he and Andrew ever got into speaking distance again, instead of communicating in near misses and scrawled notes, in bullets that went deliberately over Neil’s head, in bullets that went deliberately in Neil’s enemies. 

Neil flips onto his back, staring up at the stars again. He’d start with some witty repartee, he thinks. Oblique references to places they’ve both been, maybe a teasing tone. He certainly wouldn’t put himself within arms reach of Andrew, he’s seen the man grapple with upwards of four men without breaking a swe-

Suddenly, there’s a body on his, trying to pin his arms. Neil curses himself for dropping his guard as he struggles to free his arms, kicking clouds of dirt up and generally making a nuisance. He manages to dislodge the body long enough to flip onto his hands and knees and try to crawl to Foxfire, but a strong arm around his stomach pulls him right back down onto his bedroll, gasping for breath. His arms are hoisted unceremoniously over his head. He elbows his aggressor on the face on the way up, but it’s not enough to daze him. Neil tries to shake him off again but suddenly there’s an edge of cold steel at his throat that makes him freeze. 

His eyes adjust to the light enough that he can see his assailant, and he curses, loudly and without any inhibition. 

“God fucking dammit to hell,” Neil curses. Andrew just leans in further and smirks, a cool expression on his barely exerted face. Neil kicks a bit more but Andrew just shifts his weight a bit, and suddenly Neil has no leverage with which to move his legs. Neil’s pulse is thrumming, and his body is shaking with fight jitters. He feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his body. 

“Gotcha,” Andrew says, satisfaction curling around his syllables. His weight is spread heavy on Neil’s body, pinning him in place, and he’s holding Neil’s wrists above his head with one strong hand. The other holds a massive knife against his throat. Neil feels his pulse race against the cold edge. 

“You got sloppy, Josten,” Andrew croons into Neil’s ear, and Neil shivers. A part of Neil is surprised that Andrew would know to call him by his favorite alias, but then he remembers that’s the one he used to introduce himself to Andrew in the first place. “Or should I say Wesninski,” he says, his smirk evident in his low voice. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Neil chokes, bucking up a bit against Andrew’s bulk. It’s a useless ploy. Andrew doesn’t budge, but his knife moves with Neil rather than against him. Neil isn’t surprised. Andrew could have killed him many times over in their history. Neil’s life isn’t any more in danger now than it usually is. If Neil wouldn’t be taken and killed slowly by his father as soon as Andrew called in the bounty, Neil might even be tempted to call this position safer than usual.

“You’ve been taking bigger risks recently, going after bigger scores. You were spotted cheating at cards two towns back, in Haven. Sloppy. You should have known I’d have caught up by now, but you overestimated yourself. Now you’re mine,” Andrew says, triumphant in his hard-fought victory. His smile is fierce, a gash of surprisingly clean teeth against his tanned skin. Neil feels out of breath. Andrew has caught him, finally caught him, and there’s nothing he can do to escape. His gun’s on his horse and he doesn’t carry knives, not anymore. He has nowhere to run. For better or for worse, their game of cat and mouse is over. 

Suddenly, desire drowns his terror out, a shivering pleasure running along his spine and pooling heavy in his stomach. The tension in his shoulders moves to his thighs and hips, and he swallows harshly, bucking up again, this time just to feel the unwavering pressure of Andrew’s body, the hard planes of muscle trapping him. 

Andrew’s heavy brow furrows. He recenters his weight on Neil’s hips, his hold on Neil’s wrists unrelenting as he purposefully grinds down on Neil through their jeans. Neil moans, the sound torn out of him almost violently. He’s hard now, he realizes, harder than he thinks he’s ever been. 

“Jesus Christ,” Andrew breathes. “You like this, don’t you?” Neil doesn’t answer, can’t answer. Neil’s never felt anything like this before, never wanted someone the way he does now. He feels drunk and desperate and filthy and so turned on he can’t think straight. 

Andrew levers his weight off of Neil’s body, and cool air flows between them, bringing a feeling of unbearable loss. 

“Wait,” Neil gasps, hips snapping up to try and close the distance between them. 

“Answer the question,” Andrew growls. “Do you like this, or do you not?” 

“Yes,” Neil whimpers, and like magic, Andrew is back on top of him, warm and dangerous and completely in control. 

“Have you thought about this before?” Andrew asks, his voice huskier now. Neil has. It’s lonely out here in the West; on the rare occasions when Neil takes himself in hand, Andrew occupies most of his fantasies. 

“Have you?” Neil asks, attempting to recover some ground, even as he writhes under Andrew’s frame. “I bet you have. You’ve been stalking me across this godforsaken frontier for months now. You must have imagined what you’d do to me when you finally pinned me down.” 

Before now, Neil had no frame of reference for any kind of intimate activity, other than the bawdy jokes he heard in saloons and the perfunctory speech his mother gave him when he turned twelve, so his imaginings had always been hazy, tinged with uncertainty. He imagined Andrew touching him with gun-calloused hands, sure and confident. He imagined touching Andrew’s face and lips in response and experiencing a manageable pleasure, a pleasure he knew he could survive. 

The reality of Andrew demolishes those hazy fantasies. Andrew is solid and unshakeable, a bulwark against the night wind. His edges are stark against the starry night sky, and the searing line of rolling contact between them obliterates any chance of coherent thought from Neil any time soon. Neil thinks he might die tonight, the fire in his veins so urgent, the need so strong. 

“I imagined you’d finally shut up,” Andrew grunts and Neil feels a fresh wave of heat wash over him at the concept of Andrew thinking about him like this, “Always running your mouth, getting into trouble, making me clean up after you.” 

“You didn’t appreciate the bounties I gift wrapped for you?” Neil says, smirking. Andrew rolls his eyes and hips at the same time, and Neil’s eyes flutter shut at the sensation. 

“Did you mean the dangerous outlaws you pissed off and sent my way to slow me down when you skipped town?” 

“What did I say?” Neil asks, hooking his ankle behind Andrew’s calf in a futile attempt to get him closer. “Besides, I knew you could take ‘em, and you got paid per head. You deserved it for being such a good sport about losing me all the time.” Baiting Andrew is one of Neil’s few pleasures in life, and this instance is no different than any other time he’s used his name while cheating at cards or slowed down enough to be spotted but not caught. Andrew makes a low noise, an odd mixture of a growl and a groan, and dips to catch Neil’s lips. 

Neil freezes against the unfamiliar sensation, then makes a sound like a dying animal and surges into the kiss, opening his mouth to grant Andrew easier access. The metal at his neck disappears, but Neil doesn’t open his eyes to investigate the loss, wrapping his own legs as tight around Andrew’s as possible to leverage himself closer. Andrew sucks Neil’s tongue into his mouth and presses a hand against the noticeable bulge in Neil’s jeans.

Neil’s eyes fly open. He’s almost bewildered — this is what Andrew tossed the knife away for? — but bewilderment eases with every rough pull of his cock through his jeans. The feeling is exquisite, but before long the denim begins to chafe his sensitive skin. 

“Shit, Andrew, touch me,” Neil moans, breaking the kiss, and Andrew does, thumbing the button open and pushing aside the long johns to grab Neil’s cock. Neil shouts, and Andrew shoves his tongue back in Neil’s mouth. The new feeling overwhelms Neil, the blood rushing around his head pleasantly. Andrew does have gun callouses, Neil thinks almost deliriously, as he mindlessly fucks into Andrew’s sure hand, his broad fingers. Andrew’s other hand is still tight around Neil’s wrists over his head, which probably feels uncomfortable for Andrew but which feels absolutely necessary to Neil. 

On a practical level, the hand around his wrists is a relief. Neil’s never kissed anyone before, and as such, has no idea what to do with his hands. Andrew seems to have a very specific and limited role for Neil’s hands, one that Neil can manage. On a deeper level, the idea that Andrew can so easily restrain him sends heat up his spine. Neil has always understood Andrew as a relentless force, unstoppable, indomitable. Neil can only barely escape him, never defeat him. Everything about Andrew is a cliff dive, a near-miss. The thrill-seeker in him wants him like a drug, wants him dangerous, wants him close. 

Andrew’s hand leaves Neil’s cock, untucking Neil’s shirt and tugging it open, tearing apart the layers of fabric until Neil’s stomach is exposed. Neil bites down on Andrew’s lower lip, and Andrew pinches his stomach in retaliation, making Neil jump. The hand leaves Neil entirely as Andrew trails his lips down Neil’s jaw, biting down on the skin on his neck. 

Neil looks up at the stars, gasping for breath as Andrew ravages his neck, knuckles grazing Neil’s belly as he fiddles with his own belt and clothes. The night sky looks uncommonly beautiful, peppered with bright stars that spin wildly as Neil pants. The stars don’t usually spin, do they? 

Suddenly, Andrew is kissing him again, and Neil is back underwater, dizzied and overwhelmed. He bites down on Andrew’s lower lip, right as Andrew drops back onto Neil, their newly bare stomachs and cocks aligned sending flashes of pleasure skittering up Neil’s legs and spine. Neil ruts up against Andrew like an animal, the white-hot pleasure of Andrew’s hard erection against his obliterating his self-control. Andrew grunts softly against Neil’s lips, driving Neil into a higher frenzy. 

Neil’s stomach is slick with sweat and pre, easing their frenetic motions against each other. They aren’t so much kissing right now as they’re panting sloppily into each other's mouths. Andrew drops his head to Neil’s shoulder, leaving Neil facing the heavens again. The stars look much closer now than they did before. Neil turns his head to mouth at Andrew’s neck, and then, spurred by Andrew’s full-body shiver, bites down gently. Andrew rears back after making a shocked noise in Neil’s ear. He pulls back until he can grab both of them in his hand, jerking them at the same time. 

Neil’s eyes roll back into his head. His breathing’s coming out unsteady and loud, coloring the mostly dead night air. He can feel himself nearing his climax, feels his thighs and calves cramping up and his movements losing rhythm. 

“Andrew,” Neil gasps. “Andrew, I’m about to-.” 

“Shit, do it,” Andrew commands, and Neil does, spilling onto Andrew’s hand and his stomach. For a long time and no time at all, it’s like he’s been struck by lightning. He’s in agony, he’s in ecstasy, he’s found god and given up religion. Andrew groans and follows him, adding to the mess on Neil’s stomach. He collapses next to Neil, breathing wetly onto his neck. 

The hand that was on Neil’s wrists comes down, bringing Neil’s arms with them. Neil feels a twinge in his shoulders and wrists that feels like it might ache later, but right now he’s too loose and sated to care. Andrew grabs a bandanna from somewhere and swipes it over Neil’s belly, removing the worst of the mess they made. 

“Andrew,” Neil says, even as his eyelids droop. “What now?” 

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” Andrew says, his voice low and warm. Neil’s eyelids droop more. Andrew is a tangible presence next to him, strong and solid and awake. Neil closes his eyes. He’ll plan his daring escape just as soon as he rests his eyes for a second. 

He wakes up to the first flickering rays of dawn. Andrew is tucked against him, an arm slung over his hips, his steady breaths warming Neil’s neck. He threw a rough blanket over both of them sometime last night when Neil was out of it, and now it’s wrapped up in their tangled legs. It’s the perfect opportunity for Neil to make his escape. 

He extricates himself from Andrew’s loose grip easily. Andrew doesn’t make it difficult, and Neil is careful with him, gently arranging his strong limbs on the narrow bedroll. Andrew huffs a bit in displeasure in his sleep, and Neil ducks down to press kisses to his knuckles and wrists, suddenly overwhelmed by the strange beauty of Andrew’s knobby bones through toughened skin, the careless lethality in Andrew’s sleeping hands. 

He doesn’t want to leave Andrew, he thinks miserably, before he pads silently to the knife Andrew threw to the side, but if it’s a choice between living free and dying in custody, he has to choose freedom every time. 

Then again, is life on the road actually freedom? Neil thinks as he puts the knife in one of his saddlebags and stares down at Andrew’s sleeping form next to the fire. Neil’s chest aches. He lives in fear, trapped on all sides by ever-encroaching threats. He’s never been more miserable in his life, never been more close to giving up. Before Andrew showed up just now, Neil can’t remember the last time he felt anything other than bone-deep exhaustion. He begins to untie Foxfire where she’s tied up before he looks back down at Andrew. 

Andrew is a good man, Neil knows this. He’s shown mercy to too many petty criminals, shown no mercy to too many monsters. There’s a nobility to him that’s rare in the West, especially rare in Neil’s memory. But what Neil is about to do to him will curdle things between them. There won’t be the playful banter, the cat and mouse game, the grudging respect. Andrew won’t forgive Neil for betraying him and Neil won’t have anyone at all out here. 

Neil’s tired of being alone. He wasn’t built for it, and he hasn’t adapted to it. He walks back from Foxfire, back to Andrew, and feels better about his prospects with every step. 

The space next to Andrew’s body is a siren song, the warmth he relinquished when he got up too powerful to resist. He lies back down on the ground and curls back into Andrew’s side, levering Andrew’s arm back over his hips. He presses against Andrew’s broad chest, nosing at his exposed collarbone as he gently tugs the blanket over them again, trapping their heat under the sturdy fabric. 

He’ll throw himself on Andrew’s mercy, he thinks. It’ll be a gamble, but in hindsight, no more of a gamble than every other risk Neil has taken to live free out here. Maybe Andrew will take pity on him and give up on the bounty entirely, letting a more lethal bounty hunter take the case, maybe he’ll throw him in prison and forget about him, but Neil isn’t going to run again. He’s so tired of running. 

Andrew suddenly wraps his arms tightly around Neil, who freezes, caught out. 

“You’re awake,” Neil says, stating the obvious. 

“You didn’t run,” Andrew responds in kind, a trace of wonder in his sleep rough voice. 

“Don’t give me to the Marshals,” Neil pleads, a panicked non-sequitur. “I’m innocent, I swear, I never killed anyone who wasn’t aiming to kill me first, and I only started robbing folks and cheating at cards after the first bounty was set. I’m not a bad guy, not really, I swear to god.” 

“I know. You’re a runner, Neil, you’ve been running your whole life. Why didn’t you run?” Andrew asks, bringing up his hand to gently trace Neil’s cheekbone with his knuckle. 

“I’m serious, Andrew. My father’s been trying to kill me since I ran from home. He already killed my mother, and he’s using you and the bounty system to finish the job. If you turn me in, that’s it for me,” Neil says. 

“We can fake your death,” Andrew says, his tone unconcerned. “I have some contacts in the Marshals that can get your bounty changed to dead or alive. You can use the reward money to start a new life. Answer my question.” 

Neil blinks up at Andrew, reeling. Andrew’s offering Neil freedom, real freedom, for no cost it seems. He was going to let Neil run, and now he’s going to help Neil stay. Andrew’s face is carefully bland, but he can’t quite mask the trace of hope in his eyes, only noticeable to Neil now because of its absence before. 

Neil smiles, and now Andrew is the one blinking in confusion. He ignores Andrew’s expression, pushing his face into Andrew’s throat, where his stubble is just growing in. He mouths gently at the tender skin there and Andrew shivers. 

“You said it,” Neil whispers into Andrew’s neck. Andrew’s fingers tighten compulsively around Neil’s hips. “You caught me. I’m yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if you liked it or if you hated it and thought it was written by an alien who's never known lust and shouldn't be allowed to do this again!!!!! comments are my life-blood!!!!!!!!!!


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